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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061093">TIDES AND DUST</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SILKCUT/pseuds/SILKCUT'>SILKCUT</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Death and Resurrection, F/M, Gen, Inscribed by SILKCUT, Twitter Roleplay Solo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:12:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SILKCUT/pseuds/SILKCUT</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-five-year old Laura understands now that when you die, you just rot. All that she had studied and learned, the more she read, turned out to be just stories. There is no magic in the world. There are no gods or hidden mysteries and prophecies and chosen ones and monsters. There is only this life and then you die.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Tides of Fortune</h2></a>
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<p>She stands among the cheap imitations of finer beliefs and feels something akin to mild disgust rising from the pit of her stomach. Laura rarely feels strongly about most things, but as her gaze glosses over the replicas depicting Egyptian deities and the waitresses clad in the popularized Hollywood interpretation of what a Cleopatra looks like, Laura feels almost sick.<br/><br/>It's a complete bastardization of a religion and way of life that used to fascinate her in history books, but that was way back then when she still cared—and still felt things that warranted rage or love.<br/><br/>If she were to be honest now, being offended is not her style; so are standing up for any kind of meaningful opinion or supporting a valid cause. And so whatever she feels negatively about this casino's choice of décor and culture to desecrate quickly disperses once she heard that she’s getting a raise in her salary by virtue of seniority. Six years of her twenties have been spent dealing cards in this shithole after all. It’s about time she gets what she is owed. If it meant complying to a style of dress that complements the entire Egyptian theme, then Laura will suck it up and do the job that paid her schooling and is now paying the bills and her rent.<br/><br/>At least she is able to enjoy one thing while working the tables. It's the basic activity of shuffling cards and watching people bet scores of money on either the winning or losing side. In her most fanciful state of mind, sometimes Laura considers herself the undiscriminating force of luck as she deals the cards among the faceless horde of the casino’s customers; some of them long-time patrons with fat to trim while the great majority are just the garden-variety sample of gamblers who never know how to stop.<br/><br/>Laura supposes she pitied all of them but sympathy too is something she is becoming rather bereft of these days. The only consistent thing is her routine at work: going to her night shift, putting on the ridiculous bow-tie whose style was based on the eye of Horus or some shit like that, and stand for hours while shuffling cards and taking away bets from folks who just ran out of luck. It may be depressing, cyclical and bland, but Laura is twenty-five and tries not to contemplate deeper meanings in life.<br/><br/>She doesn’t think she has the privilege to question the way things work at this point. As an adult, one undergoes a rude awakening that shifts his or her focus on more pragmatic things. To Laura, life lacks magic and color, that’s all, the kind that used to fill her childhood with awe and daydreams. True enough, her parents had considered her imaginative and optimistic while she was growing up. She'd read books and study anything that holds her interest and fascination. Myths and powerful legends—entities like gods and different ways of worship and beliefs in a paradise or an everlasting life after death—those used to fuel young Laura.<br/><br/>Not anymore. Twenty-five-year old Laura understands now that when you die, you just rot. All that she had studied and learned, the more she read, turned out to be just stories. There is no magic in the world. There are no gods or hidden mysteries and prophecies and chosen ones and monsters. There is only this life and then you die.<br/><br/>So she contends herself instead in shuffling cards with her hands, in relishing the way they flicker in smooth motions within her grasp, and it's the only tangible feeling she can at least count on as they travel across her fingertips. It's honest and visceral. It's the one thing that ever feels real. It occurs to Laura that she isn’t beholden to anything or anyone in this mortal plane at all, and she is becoming very certain that neither will she be bound in death. For now she shall labor and rid herself of hopes.</p>

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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Contemplations of Dust</h2></a>
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<strong>Ｄｕｓｔｓｃｅａｗｕｎｇ</strong> </h2><h2 class="wsite-content-title">❝ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴅᴜsᴛ ❞</h2><h2 class="wsite-content-title">
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  <p>Brittle bones and marrow—flesh and tendon marred with decay—skin so rough with ice in her pores while insects cling to her cheeks and arms. Tʜɪs ɪs Lᴀᴜʀᴀ Mᴏᴏɴ, as dead as she can get, with beautiful hazel green eyes now cloudy and haunted. The blood no longer flows in her veins. No pulse. No brain activity. And yet here she is before him—the ᴍɪʀᴀᴄᴜʟᴏᴜs ᴄᴏʀᴘsᴇ—held only upright by a magical gold coin lodged between her incomplete set of ribs.<br/> <br/>Mad Sweeney absolutely loathes the dead cunt, and yet he must stay with her not only because it is his mission to keep her as far away as possible from ruining any of Wednesday's plans, but mostly because he can’t help ʙᴇɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴀʀ ʜᴇʀ himself. Nostalgia and gratitude from long ago still have this hold on him which he can’t shake off. It's bollocks, that’s what it is.<br/> <br/>There clearly is something wrong with him. Laura Moon is the biggest inconvenience of his life at the moment, and he is sure he hates every minute he has to spend with her, yet he finds himself giving her ʟɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ ʟᴏᴏᴋs. Fine, the woman is still strong in mind and spirit and with more fight in her than he could have ever imagined. Mad Sweeney supposed he admires that. There can be no other reason now. Is ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ?<br/> <br/>Well, that coin that’s still inside her belonged to him, one that was given in worship and belief by a simple girl from Ireland who resembled Laura herself not just in looks but in steely determination to make something for herself.<br/> <br/>That could be it—most probably.<br/> <br/>From what he could assess (when Sweeney even musters the presence of mind to care anything about any of this), all that Laura wants is to breathe and live and love her husband again—a man she never should have taken for granted to begin with. She wants him back so she can ʀᴇʙᴜɪʟᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪғᴇ she used to think sucked and bored her until she actually ᴅɪᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏsᴛ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ. He supposed there was something poetic about that, but ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ Aᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀs where dreams—more often than not—rot faster before anyone can even come up with them first.<br/> <br/>The first time he met ‘Dᴇᴀᴅ Wɪғᴇ’ Laura Moon (no, not when he had killed her and another man she was with by making it look like an accident) was back in that dingy motel room. She had asked Sweeney what the fuck he was, and he was quick to admit he was a ʟᴇᴘʀᴇᴄʜᴀᴜɴ. He should have lied. He could have said anything else but the truth. But perhaps there was some part of him that hoped his revelation would awaken a dormant part in Laura and appeal to that side of her Irish lineage that descended from Essie McGowan herself--<br/> <br/>Nᴏ﹐ ɴᴏ﹐ ɴᴏ﹐ Sᴡᴇᴇɴᴇʏ﹐ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏʟᴅ ғᴏᴏʟ﹐ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴏᴘ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs ᴀssᴏᴄɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴡᴏᴍᴇɴ. Bound by the same blood they might be, but Lᴀᴜʀᴀ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ Essɪᴇ. Repeat it as often as you must: Lᴀᴜʀᴀ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ Essɪᴇ.<br/> <br/>At the moment, he had had taken Dead Wife to the mansion of a pagan goddess who could have resurrected her, if not for that pesky little detail about her death being caused by another god. Bollocks, now he’s caught.<br/> <br/>“Wʜɪᴄʜ—” she stares at Mad Sweeney with obvious murder in her eyes as she asks, “—ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ—ɢᴏᴅ?”<br/> <br/>She knows already before she even asks the question through gritted teeth. And so raw physical power fuels Laura with violence, turning her petite five foot frame into a war machine. It’s a little sickening to think she could be so abusive of the strength the magic coin had blessed her with, but her reservations meant so little by now—especially since she had just learned the  truth about her demise.<br/> <br/>She had no other way to express her bitterness other than to inflict more pain on the nearest unfortunate victim, and so Laura interrogates him by squeezing his scrotum and balls with an iron grip and lifting him against the wall. He admits it all right there and then under the threat of massive pain that yes, YES, he is responsible for the car accident that cost her life in the most humiliating way imaginable. Yᴇs﹐ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs Wᴇᴅɴᴇsᴅᴀʏ! It was Wednesday who wanted her out of the picture so he can enslave her husband and steal the faith he used to worship Laura with and claim it as his.<br/> <br/>After what felt like an agonizing lifetime of torture, Laura releases his crotch, and he falls to the ground with a huge thud accompanied by a resounding sigh of relief. Sweeney struggles now to gather his breath after the wind was knocked over him. That breathlessness was nothing compare to the sore sensation on his private parts which suffered most of the wreckage from her womanly wrath.<br/> <br/>“Fuck that piece of shit obsolete motherfucker old god!” she screams once as if anyone who would hear would even care. Laura surprisingly simmers down a few seconds just as quickly after uttering that blasphemy and then sinks to the floor across him. She folds her knees up so she can rest her elbows there, all the while glaring mournfully at nothing. Flies have begun to circle her head, drawn by her ghastly scent. Cloudy eyes remain downcast as she clenches and unclenches her fists.</p>
  <p>Sweeney keeps quiet and just watches her. What else is there but to stay and have patience? He owes Essie—Laura that at least. (Lᴀᴜʀᴀ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ Essɪᴇ, gods damn it all!)<br/> <br/>With a strained, semi-whisper, Laura addresses him once more, “That casino heist I had planned three years ago—did Wednesday have something to do with why it failed, why Shadow went to prison?”<br/> <br/>“What do you think?” He rubs his fingers on his left temple and exhales aloud, already finding this line of conversation weakening his resolve about keeping up appearances.<br/> <br/>“Why did he do it? Get him in jail and then had me killed?”<br/> <br/>“Because he wanted Shadow to lose everything and make sure he had no one to go back to,” Sweeney explains in a mild, almost sympathetic tone. “If you’re still in the picture, he can’t own your husband’s faith completely. And ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴀʙsᴏʟᴜᴛᴇ ᴏғ ғᴀɪᴛʜs ɪs ʙᴏʀɴ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴍɪsғᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴇs—ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ ʜᴀs ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟsᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴠᴇ ғᴏʀ.”<br/> <br/>Laura still isn’t looking at him which was might as well. Some truths deserved their secrets, and yet Sweeney is willing to bear it all for her now.<br/> <br/>He remains seated on the floor where he is, keeping his hands to himself even though a persistent itch under his skin wants to move closer and perhaps touch her hair. Disgusted by that urge, he tears his eyes away from Laura and remarks, “He worshipped you, Dead Wife. Shadow Moon didn’t just love you—you were his own little ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅᴇɪᴛʏ. Love as pure as that which almost rivals religious worship? Well, Shadow apparently has that, which is why Wednesday chose him to be his first disciple for the new world. And he needed him alone and vulnerable.”<br/> <br/>With a deep sigh, Sweeney leans the back of his head on the wall behind him. His eyes flutter shut as he listens to his own steady pulse.<br/> <br/>“Are all the old gods assholes like Wednesday?” Laura asks next. Her tone sounds dismissive, almost as if she’s admitting defeat, and yet somehow Sweeney knows she hasn’t completely given up. In the last few days he had traveled and gotten to know her, he had seen firsthand that there’s so much more that this woman is capable of.<br/> <br/>“What do you think gods do?” he opens his eyes so he can meet her stare. “They do what they’ve always done. Tʜᴇʏ ғᴜᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴜs. Don’t take it personally.”<br/> <br/>His eyes fall to the floor now as he adds, “I don’t.”<br/> <br/>Laura shakes her head as the frown on her pallid face deepens into a scowl, “He won’t get away with this. I’m not going to fucking let him.”<br/> <br/>“You’re a ridiculous woman. What chance do you even think you have, huh, Dead Wife? He’s the All-Father. A civilization had waged wars in his name for millenniums and offered him their massacres which kept Wednesday potent and powerful. So ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ﹣sᴇᴠᴇɴ ʏᴇᴀʀ ᴏʟᴅ sʟᴀᴄᴋᴇʀ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ?” Sweeney glares at her now, annoyed mostly at himself for even caring for what else Wednesday could do to her— ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ Sᴡᴇᴇɴᴇʏ ᴅᴏ ᴛᴏ Lᴀᴜʀᴀ, most like—if she persists on challenging the old god.<br/> <br/>“I don’t give a shit who he is and what people used to do to kiss his ass. I’m going to see my husband. I know he’s downstairs right now and that Wednesday wants to go brainwash him some more. Well, not on my watch—“<br/> <br/>Laura gathers herself from the floor and zips up her red jacket. She had only worn that piece of clothing because it conceals the chasm on her chest cavity where flaps of rotting flesh have fallen off during their little road accident hours ago.<br/> <br/>“What can I do? Look, I may not be able to throw thunderbolts or wreck shit up the old-fashioned Biblical way or whatever old gods do in their spare time. But what I do know is that Sʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ʟᴏᴠᴇs ᴍᴇ—yeah, it’s a cliché, I fucking know that,” she pauses so she can breathe in for show since she has a non-functional respiratory system.<br/> <br/>Afterwards she adds, “But that’s more than whatever hold Wednesday thinks he has on him. I love Shadow, he’s my husband, and I’ᴍ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴀᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ.”<br/> <br/>Before she leaves the empty hallway, Dead Wife glances at the weary leprechaun warningly as she commands, “I know you’re his henchman-slash-pet but don’t try and get in my way, ginger minge. I’ll crush your cock and balls for real this time if you interfered. Do you hear me?”<br/> <br/>Sweeney’s gaze falls briefly on her chest where he could still feel the coin cradled between what was left of her brittle ribcage. When all of this began, Sweeney had given Shadow the wrong coin back at the bar, and he tossed said coin on top of Laura’s grave. The desperation of his longing to see his wife again had mixed with Essie’s own blessing of belief that was still tied to that coin. Together they brought Laura Moon back to life, reanimating her corpse and even giving her super strength.<br/> <br/>He’d only get the coin back if she surrenders it to him willingly. The original bargain was that he’d bring her here to the pagan goddess Easter’s abode so she can fix her up. But that went south now, didn’t it? Sweeney realized that he should have taken it from her already after their accident. When Laura got thrown out the ice-cream truck, the coin fell out of her chest, rolling off to Sweeney’s own body as he tried to get up.   That had been his one chance to just take it and leave her corpse there on the road.<br/> <br/>But the sight of her lifeless small body just lying there on the pavement for the second time loosened something hard and cold inside Mad Sweeney he didn’t even know can happen after all these long decades of serving Wednesday—a god he had learned to despise. It clogged his throat with something fierce and akin to a real emotion. And that’s when Sweeney openly shouted at the world in Gaelic, cursing Wednesday’s name for this cruel and bizarre punishment.<br/> <br/>For Wednesday knew all about Essie and the coin and ᴡʜʏ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴs sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛᴏ Sᴡᴇᴇɴᴇʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴏᴛʜ.<br/> <br/>And so he found himself kneeling before her corpse as if in bereavement. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes unbeknownst to him while he collected the tattered parts of Laura’s skin so he can pitifully put them back on her chest. He then took the coin between trembling fingers, blinking away the tears he would be remiss to shed for a dead girl he barely knew but wanted to—whom he happened to have killed out of a god’s whim just weeks ago.<br/> <br/>Sweeney risked cradling the side of her head so he can turn her face upwards to him. Cloudy eyes greeted him in a blank stare—the same eyes that belonged to a woman from his past who believed and prayed to him so much that the strength of that faith had brought him to the Americas with her after she migrated, revitalizing his power and relevance even as the world changed and grew indifferent to his kind.<br/> <br/>But Essɪᴇ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ Lᴀᴜʀᴀ Mᴏᴏɴ.</p>
  <p>Right after he buried the coin back into her chest where a heart was supposed to be, Laura regained consciousness and immediately punched him in the face. She hurriedly put on a jacket as she got up from the ground and walked back to the truck, lifting and pushing it back on its wheels using her inhuman strength.<br/> <br/>“Come on!” she called out to him before she jumped back into the driver’s seat. Irritably she even honked at him, the impatience on her expression as visible as the decayed portions of her facial skin.<br/> <br/>And Sweeney complied, sitting right back on the passenger seat as if nothing happened and everything was just the same between them. His gaze lingered upon her for several seconds though. If only Laura looked back at him she would have seen then that it wasn’t only because of Wednesday’s instruction that he was here.<br/> <br/>That look in his eye said it all—Mad Sweeney had been haunted by many terrible things in his long lifetime, but ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴄʟᴏsᴇ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀsᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴀᴄʜᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ Essɪᴇ’s ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ʟᴇғᴛ ᴀɴᴅ sᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪᴍ.<br/> <br/>But Essɪᴇ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ Lᴀᴜʀᴀ Mᴏᴏɴ, is she?<br/> <br/>“I’m coming with you, Dead Wife,” Back at the present, Sweeney stands up, long legs stretching as he pulled himself up the floor so he can trail after Laura. He can tell that in spite of her confident gait, Laura is scared of what can happen once she finally comes face-to-face with Wednesday. She’s not going to admit that, of course, and merely shoots him a half-hearted glare.<br/> <br/>“I told you, if you get in my fucking way—”<br/> <br/>“Yeah, yeah, you’ll obliterate my manhood with those itchy weapons you call fingers, aye, no need to repeat your threats, Dead Wife,” Sweeney reaches forward to open the doors for her, like he’s some gentleman.<br/> <br/>Laura doesn’t say anything anymore and just walks past the open doors whilst more flies gather above her still, crowning her head with an ironic halo. He follows this time not because he had to but because—more than anything else—he simply wants to.<br/> </p>
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  <p>Wednesday looks more amused than angry after he greets Laura pleasantly with, “Well, hello there, Mrs. Moon”, and her response is an acidic “Hᴏᴍᴇᴡʀᴇᴄᴋᴇʀ.” He takes it in a stride though and interjects with, “Aᴅᴜʟᴛᴇʀᴇss”, but then Laura doesn’t miss a beat at all and retorts back with, “Oʙsᴏʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏғ sʜɪᴛ-ɢᴏᴅ” as if they were long-time friends as oppose to obvious rivals.<br/> <br/>“I tried to keep her away, you know I did,” Sweeney later on tells him as they both stay outside of the room where Shadow and Laura are now conversing; the husband and wife finally reunited after the fates kept driving them apart.<br/> <br/>The All-Father just looks at Sweeny with an inscrutable glint in his mismatched eyes.<br/> <br/>“It’s okay,” he says with the gentlest of smiles that conceals more of his cunning and cruelty than most. “You have nothing to be ashamed of at all.”<br/> <br/>“The fuck do I have to be ashamed of?” Sweeney glares as his fists clenched underneath him, “I did all that you asked and never questioned your will. I pledged fealty to you because I know you always win your wars, and this war is the most important one to me. It can finally absolve my betrayal when I didn’t fight back—”<br/> <br/>“Oh, that sob story again of Mad fucking Sweeney!” Wednesday just laughs, waving a hand at him to quickly dismiss his personal tragic tale. “I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about Essie. Or Mrs. Moon now, as it turns out.”<br/> <br/>“They’re not the same person.”<br/> <br/>“Aren’t they now?” he lets out a mocking gasp as he raises his eyebrows to complete the effect. “And yet—and yet you’re drawn to both.”<br/> <br/>Sweeney goes quiet for a while, meeting the All-Father’s gaze with a seething vehemence as he points out in a hushed tone, “You made it happen, didn’t you? That coin I gave to Shadow—that was no accident. I didn’t make a mistake. You did something so he’d get Essie’s coin instead.”<br/> <br/>“Oh, that makes it almost sound like I’m omniscient, doesn’t it?” Wednesday rests a hand on Sweeney’s shoulder, his smile widening as his eyes crinkled along with it. He looks kind and self-assured for an old god who had only known to inspire brutality and make tempests back when he ruled and was hailed as the greatest of them all.<br/> <br/>“Like I said; don’t be ashamed, Sweeney,” he lowers his voice into a whisper this time, “Yᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀsᴛ ɢᴏᴅ ᴡʜᴏ ʜᴀᴅ ғᴀʟʟᴇɴ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪs ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘᴘᴇʀ.”<br/> <br/>“I was never in love with Essie,” he flinches away from the All-Father’s touch, taking a few cautious steps back now. And Essɪᴇ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ Lᴀᴜʀᴀ Mᴏᴏɴ.<br/> <br/>“Sure you weren’t,” Wednesday just shakes his head and leaves Sweeney to possibly dwell some more on his centuries-long denial and repressed feelings. If he was wearing a hat, he might as well have tipped it as he adds, “And we’re both also sure you aren’t confusing which woman is which right now, are you, Mad Sweeney?”<br/> <br/>He leaves the question hanging in the air just like that, and Sweeney stays right where is. He finds that he’s no longer that eager to follow after the old fuck.<br/> <br/>Instead, he’ll stay here until that door opens and both Shadow and Laura come out. He’ll stay because this time he’s making a choice for himself—no bargains or overdue payments or compromises are attached to that choice at all.<br/> <br/>He supposes the most important war he has to fight was not the one Wednesday wages against the new gods, but this sᴛᴏʀᴍ that’s always been brewing ɪɴ ʜɪs ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ.<br/> <br/>Mad Sweeney was never in love with Essie. And Essie is not Laura Moon. But does it really matter?</p>
  <p>Would that change how he felt about the dead cunt now?<br/> <br/>“Bollocks,” he mutters to himself as he pockets his hands and waits and waits and waits for her and an answer that will probably never come.</p>
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